Impersonating a Cleric of the Church of England
by Calatrice
Summary: One of the more interesting crimes on Jack's charge sheet. Why would he want to impersonate a clergyman, and who could possibly mistake him for one?


Disclaimer: Jack Sparrow is not mine, alas. Clarence I could get quite fond of, but Mrs Harbuckle may have to stay in her corner...

* * *

Impersonating a Cleric of the Church of England

By Calatrice

The Reverend Clarence Harbuckle had been to visit three of the poorest families in his parish in the morning and in return for his trouble he was convinced he now had a flea in his wig. Every fly in Port Royal already seemed to be intimately familiar with the horrible thing already, scuttling beneath it to tickle and bite his poor old sweaty tormented pate. Summer was so dreadful in this climate - his scalp would be quite raw when he went to bed that evening. He was so preoccupied with his discomfort that he had written not a word of the following day's sermon and he failed to hear the knock at the front door of his neat little parsonage.

"Gentleman to see you, Reverend" said the parlourmaid, interrupting his furtive attempts to squash the tormenting flea. 

If only Mrs Harbuckle were more understanding about the beastly wig and would let him take it off when they were alone; he'd never get a chance now. Still, perhaps if the visit was a short one he would be able to slip off to deal with his little problem in peace.

Mrs Harbuckle gave one of her meaningful, menacing, little coughs and he collected himself.

"Good afternoon Sir. I am Reverend Harbuckle, and this is my wife. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The visitor, standing in the shadows by the door, responded with a correct, if rather flamboyant, bow.

"Reverend John Bird at your service Sir, Madam. I hope you will forgive the intrusion, but I was making a rare visit to the metropolis when I heard your name mentioned as a collector of artefacts and stories of the buccaneers. I have an interest there myself, and I flattered myself that you might be interested in a chat."

Mrs Harbuckle's face took on a rather pinched look: she strongly disapproved of her husband's little hobby, so no visitor who expressed an interest in it was likely to find favour with her. However, she strongly disapproved of almost everything about the Caribbean and after thirty years Clarence had had a great deal of practice in ignoring her.

"I would be delighted Sir! Come in please, and sit down."

Mrs Harbuckle didn't want to waste money by being profligate with candles, but she had a horror of letting the tropical sun into her drawing room to fade the chintz and spoil (or reveal) her complexion. Hence, Reverend Bird's rather startling appearance was revealed to his hosts only when he moved to make himself comfortable in the offered chair, within the glow of the single branch of candles.

He was clothed in proper, sober, clergyman's black with a neat white cravat and a plain hat, which he placed on his knee, waving away the maid as she moved to take it from him. For the rest, his wig seemed far too large for a simple cleric and was rather lumpy and lopsided as though his hair were inadequately cropped. Great dark eyes dominated a very tanned face, which ended in a straggly beard. Beards had been out of fashion amongst gentlemen for decades, and this specimen seemed unlikely to change that state of affairs, twisting into three distinct strands and giving its wearer a decidedly rascally look.

The man thought Port Royal worthy of the term 'metropolis'. Clearly he was from some tiny parish up in the back country. Men could turn quite peculiar after a few years stuck out there without civilised company. 

"How did you develop your interest in the buccaneers Reverend Bird?"

"Call me John. Well, there was an old sailor who lived in my parish. He must have been a hundred and twenty years old when we first met. Dead now, I'm afraid. He used to tell the most wonderful stories of his days at sea. He'd been round the world three times and had seen a sea serpent rise from the deep to swallow a sperm whale whole."

"The Leviathan! My word!"

"Quite so, Clarence. You don't mind if I call you Clarence do ye?"

"Not at all. Do go on."

"He had sailed to Hy Brazil and to the island which marks the sole remaining piece of Atlantis. It took them a thousand days and nights to sail there and every man in the crew was mad from drinking the salt water when they finally sighted land."

"Did he describe it clearly? Was it like Plato said?"

"Well he was a bit unclear on the finer details. The water addled his brain, like I said. It was certainly Atlantis though - the high priest told him so."

"Wonderful. I wish I could have spoken to him. Perhaps careful questioning could have clarified that most intriguing of puzzles"

The Reverend Bird leant forward in his chair. His dark eyes seemed to stare straight through Clarence and into some mysterious distance.

"Some of his best stories though were of his days as a pirate sailing out of a hidden base on the Isla de Muerta, which can only be found by a man who already knows where to find it. He told of a cavern, filled with treasures past imagining, heaps of gold, mountains of silver, ropes of pearls and rubies the size of a child's head."

Mrs Harbuckle sniffed scornfully.

"And at the heart of the cavern," Reverend Bird continued, his voice so soft that Clarence had to strain to hear it "At the very heart, was a great stone chest, carved with the images of heathen gods. Full of gold that chest was, and on every piece was laid a terrible curse."

"A curse!"

"Aye, a curse so terrible that no man could bear to hear of it."

"What was it?"

"Well, he would never tell me. He looked pretty scared though."

Mrs Harbuckle sniffed again, louder. 

"I wonder, would you care to see my cabinet of curiosities? I have obtained a quite extensive collection of artefacts connected with the Buccaneers, and I do believe it is one of the finest such in the Caribbean."

"'Twould be a privilege and a pleasure, Clarence."

In the years Clarence had been showing his collection to visitors he had never had such a gratifying response as he got that afternoon. Even the boys from the parish tended to tire rapidly of the dusty shelves of musket balls, scraps of parchment and splinters of old wood. John Bird seemed fascinated by every last item, even the battered old compass that had never worked properly.

"One of my old parishioners left it to me, which is the only reason I keep it. I'm afraid it's quite broken - you may have noticed that it doesn't point North."

By that time they had emptied the whole cabinet. The floor was strewn with bits and scraps and dust. Mrs Harbuckle had quite given up on her disapproving sniff and was sitting in the corner, stabbing at her embroidery in the sort of silent, you-and-I-will-have-words-later way that put Clarence off the thought of supper.

"I'm afraid that I must be going. It has been a great pleasure to me to see these things Clarence."

"Too kind John."

"No, I think it's a wonderful thing that a good man such as yourself keeps the memory of my predecessors, that is to say, the old buccaneers, alive with such care."

He stood up, adjusting his funny wig, which had slipped a little revealing long strands of dark hair. Clarence managed to shake his new friend's hand, which was surprisingly callused for a man who spent his day composing sermons and leading services. With a final, flamboyant bow in the direction of Mrs Harbuckle, who returned the merest nod of acknowledgement, he was gone. 

Breakfast the following morning was eaten in silence. A small box and a letter were beside Clarence's usual place. He waited until the parlourmaid had poured his final cup of coffee and retired before examining the seal on the letter. It wasn't one he recognised - an unusual device with a bird of some kind. He broke the seal and opened the folded paper.

Dear Clarence,

Firstly I would like to thank you and your wife for your charming hospitality yesterday. I never expected such a welcome from a gentleman of Port Royal.

I am afraid that I have had to relieve you of the little compass that you showed me yesterday afternoon. I need it for a most important venture and in any case, it is not the sort of item with which a respectable man of the cloth should be associated. I can tell you no more, but should any others come seeking that compass, tell them that I have it and do not invite them in for tea.

By way of compensation for your loss, I have sent you some Spanish doubloons in the box accompanying this letter. Some real pirate gold for your cabinet, from my very own hoard. I thought that you might like the map too, but I'm afraid that I spent everything that was buried under "X" already.

I hope that you will find it in your soul to forgive me

Your friend

Captain Jack Sparrow  
Pirate of the Caribbean


End file.
